“Why? Why, I thought--Isn't it a truly bell? Didn't it ought to ring? Is anybody sick or dead? There isn't any crape.” “Dead? Crape?” Captain Cy gasped. “What in the world put that in your head?” “Well, I didn't know but maybe that was why you thought I hadn't ought to have rung it. When mamma was sick they didn't let people ring our bell. And when she died they tied it up with crape.” “Did, hey? Hum!” The captain scratched his chin and gazed at the small figure before him. It was a self-poised, matter-of-fact figure for such a little one, and, out there in the rain under the tent roof of the umbrella, it was rather pitiful. “Please, sir,” said the child, “are you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?” “Yup! That's me. You've guessed it the first time.” “Yes, sir. I've got a letter for you. It's pinned inside my dress. If you could hold this umbrella maybe I could get it out.” She extended the big umbrella at arm's length, holding it with both hands. Captain Cy woke up. “Good land!” he exclaimed, “what am I thinkin' of? You're soakin' wet through, ain't you?” “I guess I'm pretty wet. It's a long ways from the depot, and I tried to come across the fields, because a boy said it was nearer, and the bushes were--” “Across the FIELDS? Have you walked all the way from the depot?” “Yes, sir. The man said it was a quarter to ride, and auntie said I must be careful of my money because--” “By the big dipper! Come in! Come in out of that this minute!” He sprang down the steps, furled the umbrella, seized her by the arm and led her into the house, through the parlor and into the sitting room, where the fire crackled invitingly. He could feel that the dress sleeve under his hand was wet through, and the worn boots and darned stockings he could see were soaked likewise. “There!” he cried. “Set down in that chair. Put your feet up on that h'ath. Sakes alive! Your folks ought to know better than to let you stir out this weather, let alone walkin' a mile--and no rubbers! Them shoes ought to come off this minute, I s'pose. Take 'em off. You can dry your stockings better that way. Off with 'em!” “Yes, sir,” said the child, stooping to unbutton the shoes. Her wet fingers were blue. It can be cold in our village, even in early September, when there is an easterly storm. Unbuttoning the shoes was slow work. “Here, let me help you!” commanded the captain, getting down on one knee and taking a foot in his lap. “Tut! tut! tut! you're wet! Been some time sence I fussed with button boots; lace or long-legged cowhides come handier. Never wore cowhides, did you?” “No, sir.”